


Ceilings

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Handcuffs, John testing Paul's patience, M/M, more like what could go right, what could go wrong?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: John decides to fight the fear of unknown (aka his first serious relationship and a DOG joining their household, heavens) with handcuffs and raunchy ideas.What could go wrong. Right. RiGt?
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	Ceilings

**Author's Note:**

> I have to idea what tf is this, but 3 of my classes got dismissed today and I had to wait for one seminar
> 
> how we deal with that? we write rubbish fanfic

If anybody told John he would, at some point in his life, experience being handcuffed to the bed, no key to end his suffering anywhere to be found, he would laugh.

Laugh, snort and maybe even scoff. Because John Lennon mucking up something as trivial as spicing up his sexual life? Unbelievable. Pathetic.

So, when it happened, he DID have troubles to grasp the reality of it. Oh boy, how he related to those dogs stuck in the chair. The ones who had served as the endless supply of giggles. (“Dumb, dumb dogs, cats would never, right Pepper, never do that.”)

What a brave thing to claim, considering his boyfriend was about to purchase a giant fluffy ball of fur. John witnessed the process of picking up the right breed, searching for a reliable owner, and, finally, choosing the name, from the first row. (“Y'know, I like Knickers but how am I going to explain that to my dad? Maybe Martha would do too. Could she have, like, 2 names? 2 identities almost? GOSH, look at those pictures, JOHN, isn't she strapping?”)

With the date of bringing-the-dog-home knocking on the door, the pile of Martha-Knickers' photos grew larger every second. So did John fear of sharing a house with something that could serve as an inspiration for The Baskerville Dog. (“No, John, we are not painting her with phosphorescent colours to scare off Mimi.”)

For those who'd still wonder, yes, he was smitten by that McCartney dork.

Which prompted the purchase of handcuffs, as odd as it might sound. Not the one to spill his heart out, John kept his worries about "too much happiness" to himself. How did one transform from fingering girls at graveyard and blowing guys at club toilets, to planning eternity with one person?

Those and similar thoughts had kept him awake till a solution presented itself in the form of his aunt friend's magazine. Though neither of them identified as women in their 40s fed-up with their marriage, with a bit of improvisation and imagination...

He jogged to the local sex shop the following day, after discarding the idea of using "some old satin scarfs" as advised. “That's for losers,” he pondered thoughtfully, the thrill of what was yet to come speeding his steps.

John wouldn't describe himself as an amateur, having enough experiments for Liverpool and London, but this time the matter in hand required a rather delicate treatment. Hence the thorough inspection of all different kinds of handcuffs, completed with an exhausting commentary by the owner.

Throwing the bill into a nearby bin, he strode home merrily, small paper bag occupied by a pair of bloody pricey handcuffs and vegan lube (Paul'd be ecstatic) dangling by his side.

Initially his plan™ consisted of not toying with the contents before his boyfriend's arrival. However, born impatient he couldn't help to gaze at the bag every so often, his mind willingly supplying vivid images. It took about 15 minutes for John to utter a quiet "fuck" and abandon his attempts at folding the laundry in favour of conducting research.

Seated at the edge of the bed, his fingers toyed with the brown leather (probably the biggest splurge since he decided to invest into a proper cat tree), excitement tickling his spine.

Could he...?

John wouldn't confess the fact there was some nerviness, god forbid, his ego would extinguish. But eager to get the hang of the whole _tie me up, baby_ thing on his own, he ventured to try it himself.

Hastily undoing his shirt, he clicked one cuff around the bar of the headboard, then, after shuffling to the most comfortable position, his left hand followed the suit.

Nodding proudly at himself and that very seasoned approach aka the key placed on the top of the nigh stand in sufficient distance for his right hand, John was ready to sin.

The stirring serving as a mood setter, his cock twitched in anticipation and who was John to turn down his own body?

Eyes closed, he recalled the previous events — replacing his hands with Paul's. He would definitely enjoy the power, having John splayed before him, unable to move. Fuck, he could envision the familiar look of his lover — pupils blown wide, small grin and the way his voice dropped to a husky murmur...

Despite his stubbornness and knack for rebelling, John did not mind submitting to Paul, quite the contrary.

Relishing the images, John's hand traced his throat, slowly sliding down as needles of arousal prickled his skin encouragingly, creating the illusion of Paul's fingers.

Of course, Macca's talented fingers, thinner and more dainty, could not be replaced, but one must work with what's on the table.

Humming in pleasure, he stroked his chest leisurely, hissing, when the calloused pad rubbed his nipple.

Yep, definitely one of the better ideas John's head had produced, maybe he should write a "thank you" letter to the mag?

Dark jeans becoming tight to the point of painfulness, his hand determinedly set off south — undoing a very annoying button and fly before sneaking under his boxers.

“Ain't no harm in tossing meself once or twice,” John's inner voice contemplated wistfully, as he was slowly stroking himself.

Swallowed in his blissful state, he dared to ignore the presence of a fluffy animal, demanding attention NOW. Furthermore, it escaped his notion how magnetised it was by a little, shiny object.

Feeling himself getting closer to release, John bit down his lip to muffle any sounds (just an ordinary research, nothing to get too worked up), a familiar feeling blossoming in his abdomen.

_clink_

John groaned, annoyed at whatever interrupted his alone time... till it sank down.

Head jerking up, John scrambled up, trying to locate the source of that noise. As a cat owner he knew it was Pepper going bonkers, but that teeny-weeny, cute jingling sound was very well comparable to the -

SHIT

Of course there she was, entertaining herself with juggling the key.

Still, if John leaned to the side quickly, he could snatch it and return to the task, like a winner.

Except his rival happened to be a feline, a cunning one at that. That was why she pushed the key, sending in to the centre of the room. Precisely when John was straining to get there, his shoulder almost dislocating.

It took him 10 minutes to reestablish a more dignified position.

Never had he regretted not summoning enough patience to teach his cat a few tricks. For instance "bring me the fucking key".

“Come now, darling.” John cooed sweetly through gritted teeth despite his urge to SKIN that wicked animal. Maybe she would fancy a show-off round as she did with every single mouse she hunted down.

The feline in question emerged right next to the bed, her fluffy tail hoisted up proudly (no key to be seen) before springing up to her owner.

John's life'd turned into a nightmare.

As a proper cat lady he couldn't resist the good old scratch between ears. Earning himself an arsehole shoved directly into his face.

He patted the fury bum, fondly scolding the cat.

“That's no tuna for a week.”

Then, much quieter, added: “Jerk.”

He groaned, checked the time, then groaned again upon learning Paul'd arrive in 60 minutes. (If he didn't stumble across some super trouper bargain. In case they had reduced price of vegan yogurts, John could brace himself for another 2 hours of the ceiling inspection.)

Wiggling his toes, he repeated some yoga for feet exercises from when he eagerly watched anything youtube had to offer to avoid school work. And George was just getting into yoga himself, meaning he would have been dead if he hadn't done at least one asana.

Pepper curled herself on his chest, radiating heat and scratching his bare skin in her sleep. When John shifted her just an inch, one claw went particularly deep, resembling ice axe.

“Looks like somebody knows a thing or two about BDSM,” John joked to keep his spirits up, pointedly ignoring the splotch of blood. And the spasm of his left arm.

To no avail, as the more he focused on his breath, the more aware he became of his limb's swan song.

His inner hysteric was yelling (“I CAN'T lose my arm, CAN'T”), urging him to massage the afflicted area.

A loud bang forced John to shoot up, except the whole process was rather choppy — AH YEAH, a natural side effect of being handcuffed.

He must drift to sleep then, as it'd got darker in the room and there were sounds of someone else moving about.

“Babe?”

And if John wasn't even more cheerful to hear that lovely, lovely voice than when Paul went to Scotland for 3 months and lost his phone the first day.

“In here,” he croaked, estimating whether his left hand survived. (Yes.)

Steps approached him and true McCartney babbling got louder and louder.

“I can't believe I'm this late, y'know, I told myself you'll buy just the essentials…oh, hi, Pepper, yes, meow to you too,” John couldn't believe the traitorous animal was now receiving more attention than him. Or that Paul was actually meowing to her.

“Did you give her food? I did, actually, before I even managed to undo my coat, always hungry, she is… John? Did you know what they knocked o-I'll show you. Would you believe- OH?”

Frozen in the door frame, clutching one vegan yogurt, stood his boyfriend. Coat still on, cheeks red from the cold, mouth agape.

If anything John had nailed the moment of surprise.

Averting his gaze, John cleared his throat.

“Could you find the key on the floor, please?”

Motherly instincts kicking in, Paul began to scan the surface for the said object, letting out a muffled yippee when he located it. Wasting no time, he set John's limb free.

The feeling of blood rushing down reminded John of heaven. He would be content just to lie there if it wasn't for his bladder advising John to nip to the loo.

“What was that?” Paul quirked one eyebrow when John reappeared, Pepper making herself home on the finally shed coat.

“Ehmmm,” seldom it occurred words didn't come easily to John Lennon. “Spicing up our sex life?”

“By losing the key?”

Cheeks reddening, John crossed the distance, landing right next to his boyfriend before pecking his cheek.

“Was it hot tho?”

Swatting the always fidgety fingers of Lennon, Paul laughed, kissing him on the lips. Then jumped right to his feet, casting John one last glance.

“How 'bout we make dinner and have a closer look at those handcuffs?”

John raced to the kitchen like his life depended on it. After all, cooking sounded quite marvellous.


End file.
